The rumble of the dark carriage's wheels over cobblestone and the clip clop of the horses hooves broke the still London night on Gadding Street; the dark carriage was an old model, a classic, it was unmarked, painted an unrelenting black and pulled by two strong Clydesdales who were as black as the deepest shadows.

The night was dark, cloud cover blotted out both the moon and stars, and light was cast only by the occasional gas lamp flickering in front of the flats. It was in front of one of these flats that the carriage stopped; the horses gave a soft whiny and pawed the air briefly, dispelling some of their excess energy that surged through them. The two figures stood and stepped to the ground with an expert ease.

One was taller than the other, though neither could be said to be short. The taller one was lean, a less attractive man may have been called gangly, but even beneath his formal coat it was obvious that he was in peak physical condition, and his brown hair was on the shaggy side, his features delicate and his eyes were a soft and caring hazel. Definitely lean, not gangly.

The other was still tall, just not as tall, built more physically imposing; his six-foot height was characterized by a wider set to the shoulders and a stocky build. He was built like a bruiser, with a strong jaw and short cropped hair. Though he, too, was undeniably attractive, with full lips and bright piercing green eyes.

The taller one strode towards the wrought iron fence and brownstone wall that surrounded the terraced flats. He stopped when he realized the other had slowed, standing in a pool of flickering lamp light he toyed with his cufflinks absently.

The shorter one stopped on his way around the carriage. He ran his hand down the neck of each of the jet-black Clydesdales, his other hand gently offering up half an apple each. He whispered gently and reassuringly as he petted them, he smiled. "Be good, babies." He said quietly, "We'll be back soon." He turned and joined his partner in the light, who opened the wrought iron gate with a light whine of metal. The two walked up to the door in unison, with a comfort of long years working together.

The taller one knocked on the door with the heavy, simple brass knocker, and waited. After a few moments, the shorter one reached into his inner jacket pocket for a set of lock picks, when he noticed the movement in the window beside the door, a shifting of the lacy curtain. He pulled his hand out of his jacket holding a leather wallet and showed a somewhat worn brass badge inside. "Ma'am, Scotland Yard, if we could have a moment of your time, please?"

There was a twitch and the taller one also provided his badge for view. "We're sorry to bother you this late." He added. After a moment, they heard the door locks going and the door eased slowly open. The woman that peeked from between the jam and the door looked small, lost, like she hadn't gotten any sleep. She looked defeated. She was shrunk in herself, her shoulders slumped, her eyes darted about the patio before settling on the two men. Her hair was disheveled. Her voice came out a harsh whisper. "Umm. Sorry." She looked at the taller one, "How can I help?" it was barely audible.

The taller one held up his badge again, "Ma'am, I am so sorry to bother you. I am Detective Inspector Mozart. This is my partner, Detective Inspector Bach. We'd just like to ask you some questions about the incident earlier this week." Incident. Is that what you call it when your husband has been coming home from work every night for the past three weeks, and then his body is discovered, three weeks dead? To be both devastated at the loss of your husband, and terrified that someone else – something else- had spent this last three weeks in your home, intimate with you, without your knowledge, without even a suspicion; It was no wonder she was a wreck.

She hesitated for a moment, a sharp intake of breath, she willfully force the panic down. "Yes, Detective Inspectors. Yes, of course. Come in. Please." She stepped back to give them room to enter, arms crossed, shoulder slumped, eyes vacant. "I already told the constables everything…" She said.

"We know you already talked to the local constabulatory, Ma'am. And as much as we hate to make you talk about this again so soon, the locals, your husband's coworkers, aren't exactly happy to have us interfering in their investigation. One of their own, you understand?" Bach said. She flinched at the mention of her husband, but nodded.

"Yes, they all took it quite personal," was all she said.

"With all due rights, Ma'am. We just want to ensure high-emotions don't impede the investigation, is all. We want to make sure justice prevails," Mozart said. "May we?" he motioned to the sitting room beside the entrance hall.

Mrs. O'Hare seemed taken by surprise, "Oh! Of course. I apologize. Please, would you care
for some tea?" She said, suddenly remembering etiquette.

Bach opened his mouth, and Mozart barreled over him in an instant, "We would not care to inconvenience you further, Mrs. O'Hare." She nodded and shuffled into the room. The sitting room's walls were papered with a cream colored paper, a few small paintings dotted the walls and only half of the small brass oil lamps were lit with small flickering lights. An exotic vase from the far east held dead, crumbling flowers. A small fire was going in the fireplace and Mozart noticed a small leather bound book sat open beside one of the two large plush chairs facing the hearth. A quick glance was not enough for Mozart to read much, but he did notice the scrawl seemed to be that of a masculine hand, and the date put it a week before. They had interrupted her reading through – presumably, if he had to guess – her late husband's journal, and reading through faux-husband's entries, probably trying to find some sort of clue or insight she had missed.

As Mozart got a feel for the room, Bach took the initiative. "When did you say you last saw your husband?" Mozart winced as he scanned the mantle over the fireplace, it was a necessary question, but he felt for her terribly. Set on her mantle was a collection of photographs, of Constance O'Hare and her husband, Robert. They looked so happy, you could see true love in those photos. Mozart fought down the flashes of Jessica pinned to the ceiling, burning to death. He focused on Robert O'Hare, memorizing his appearance. If something was assuming his face, he wanted to recognize it when he saw it.

"Three nights passed," she said quietly; just as was filed in the reports, along with the estimate time of death having been some three weeks earlier.

"And between that time and three weeks passed, you saw him daily?"

She nodded meekly, "He was my husband, Detective Inspector."

Bach nodded, "You didn't notice any strange or conspicuous behavior?"

She shook her head and repeated like a faint echo, "He was my husband." As if trying to convince herself, to make terms with what had happened.

"And the last time you attended Sabbath?" he asked. She gave him a quizzical look, it was a strange question for a member of the police to ask.

"This last Sunday, Detective Inspector."

"And your husband was in attendance?" She nodded.

He glanced at Mozart, Mozart met his eyes and shifted them down at the journal. He followed the look and saw it. "Did Constable O'Hare bring his work home with him?" He asked the widow.

Again that nod, and that defeated voice. "Sometimes."

"Recently?" Bach asked, giving her his most comforting smile. It didn't seem to help.

"The Winchmore Hill disappearances," she explained.

"Is that his journal?" he asked, pointing to the table. Her eyes shifted to it, then down to the floor.

Mozart stepped forward, " You kept it from the others?" his voice was soft, compassionate. It nearly screamed of understanding. She nodded weakly. "You wanted to know. To make sure his name would be untarnished." It had a finality that made it a conclusion, not a question, but she confirmed with a nod. "Have you found anything?" She shook her head and slumped her shoulders even more, if that was possible.

Time to take the leap. Mozart thought. "Can we borrow it?" She looked up, fear in her eyes. Worry. Heartbreak.

Bach took a half step forward and made a soothing gesture with his hand, "Mrs. O'Hare. We get it, we do. I promise. And my partner here is quick as can be with a quill, we'll copy it over, read it through and get it back to you." She looked at him, still obviously concerned.

Bach sat next to her, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick, cracked leather journal. "I recently lost my father, Mrs. O'Hare. This is all I have left of him. In this journal here." He looked away for a moment, paused. She looked at him curiously, she found a connection with him now. Both victims of recent tragedy, both keeping the journals of their lost loved ones as a keepsake. Mozart turned back to the mantle, trying to give Bach his privacy.

"Trust me, when I say, we will make sure you get that journal back," he said at last, turning back to her. His eyes were misty and slightly ringed in red but otherwise he was composed again. He found her looking straight into his green eyes.

She nodded, " You can take the journal," she said at last. A change had rolled over her in the past few minutes; she seemed stronger, like she took comfort knowing she wasn't alone.

Mozart had a thought, "Mrs. O'Hare, I apologize. Could I trouble you for that tea, after all?"


The two of them passed through the wrought iron gate in front of her home, heading back towards the carriage. Dean Winchester shed the persona of Detective Inspector Bach as simply as changing clothes as he passed through the gate and turned to his brother. "What do you think, Sammy?"

The tall brother, Sam Winchester – not Detective Inspector Mozart – shook his head, "I don't have any clue yet. Not a demon, obviously. Doppelganger? Maybe. That tableware was real silver, but even if it was a 'ganger, he'd have had to hurt himself on it for us to know. We can look over this journal, but I'm not sure how much it will help. We may have to explore down where they found the body." Sam said, hoping Dean was listening. They'd made it to the carriage and Dean had already begun to stroke Baby's muzzle and scratch behind Imp's ears while whispering sweet words of encouragement to them. "Hey, Dean, I deplore to wreck the moment here, but are you listening?"

Dean looked up, "Yes, Sammy. We have to crawl around in the dank catacombs beneath London again. I heard you." He ran a final hand down Imp's neck, and then continued to his side of the carriage and hopped up. "You coming?" He settled into the seat.

Sam sighed and hopped up. He'd barely got himself seated when the carriage lurched forward with a hearty "Hyeah!" from Dean. He glared at Dean who had that cocky smile of his plastered across his face, but looked anywhere but at his brother. Eventually, Sam tired of the fruitless glaring, and cracked open Robert's journal and began to skim it by flickering lantern light.

The brother's carriage rattled into the back of the Golden Goblet, a coach house that anything but lived up to such a glamorous name. Run of the mill for the Winchester brothers, they stayed in the cheapest coach houses they could find, generally nights ran little more than a shilling between the two of them, and they shared their space with pallets of straw, and few amenities, generally the rats and bugs in their rooms had comfier accommodations than they did.

As the carriage drew to a halt, Dean began his nightly ritual of caring for Imp and Baby, freeing them from the carriage and walking them to the stables. A young stableboy came out to take the horses, but Dean slapped a loose assortment of pence into his hand and kicked a pile of molding hay beside him. "Get me some good hay, this crap ain't good enough, and some grain, too. Go." He said. The stableboy looked at him, at the coin in his dirty hand and scampered off in a hurry. Dean found the cleanest stall he could, it wasn't clean enough. He sighed, ran his hand down Imp's muzzle and then he pulled his long fancy coat off and hung it over Imp's back. "Stay." He whispered gently, and grabbed the pitchfork and stepped into the stall.

As Dean saw to the horses, Sam slipped the journal into his inside coat pocket and gathered the canvas travel bags they used. He eyed them each to ensure that no bit of weaponry was obvious or revealed by the shape or set of the bags, and then pushed his way through the squeaky back door of the inn. He kicked off what dirt and mud he could in the entry before stepping full into the common room. He was assaulted by the smells of tobacco, the sound of a mob carousing, and faintly the tumbling of dice on wooden tables. He stayed along the back wall, and headed for the stairs, making his way through the noise and up towards the small room he shared with Dean.

Once in the room, Sam dropped the bags to the floor beside the door with a loud whump and pulled the journal out to lay it on a small wobbly table opposite the bags. He pulled his coat off and hung it on the hook above the bags, and lastly lit the dinged and dented lantern to shed some dim light on the room. He dug through his bag, pulling out his own journal, inkwell and quills and then folded himself into a small and uncomfortable chair; he found his place in the Robert's journal, stopping before writing in his own in neat but simple scrawl.

Who is Michael?

The Journal often mentioned a friend named Michael; he wasn't a member of the constabulary, as far as Sam could tell he acted as Robert's partner entirely in an unofficial capacity. Robert often spoke of Michael helping to solve his cases due to his 'natural insight.'

What was this insight?

Michael's insights had seemed to possess a near supernatural quality; they helped Robert close, literally, case after case. The only case that had eluded them was the Winchmorehill Disappearances.

The door opened and Dean came in. Sam smelled him before he saw him, he glanced up. "Seriously, Dean? Again? You know coach houses have people to do that work for you, right?" Sam said with a smirk.

Dean sighed and barged past him, already stripping off the clothes, "Shut up, Sammy. I don't trust anyone with my babies." He stepped behind the faux-oriental screen in the corner, "and I'd already sent the stableboy running before I realized he hadn't mucked out the stalls appropriately." He finished somewhat sheepishly. Sam enjoyed a long laugh at Dean's expense, while his brother grumbled behind the screen as he washed himself as quickly and efficiently as he could be with a towel and water from his canteen. Once he regained his composure, Sam began reading out loud.

"A lack of victim's corpses made it impossible for Michael to glean any insights." Dean's head popped up from behind the screen, his short hair wet and tousled.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.

Sam shook his head, "Maybe… psychic?"

"Like you?" Dean asked reaching out for his change of clothes.

"Maybe. Yellow Eyes did say that there were 'other children like me,' maybe this Michael possesses some sort of psychometry."

"Psycho-whatsis?" Dean asked pulling his trousers on and stepping out from behind the screen.

"Psychometry. A psychic ability to touch an object and get information from it, it's been documented in several eastern mystics."

"Awesome."

Sam rolled his eyes, "Yes. So do we track down this Michael or check the catacombs first?"

"Crawling around in dank dark tunnels beneath London with God knows what lurking down there?" He snorted, "Michael first. But before that, we head downstairs and get a beer, then a good night's rest."

Sam waved him away, "You kill your liver, I have to look through this journal. If we are going to talk to Constance again tomorrow I want to be able to give Robert's journal back to her."

Dean shrugged as he grabbed his coat, "Suit yourself, Sammy. Killjoy." Sam shook his head and kept reading as the door closed.


Dean made his way through the common room. He eyed several card games going on, a couple of dice and some wonderfully voluptuous serving maids sauntering through the bar. That was a pleasant surprise as the places they usually stayed tended towards the more homely and older serving maids, ones who hadn't made it out of the life a few years too late. Dean reached into his pocket and produced a coin from his thinning finances. He put it on the table and pointed to a casket of dark. The bartender nodded and filled a dented pewter mug with a foaming dark ale. Dean tipped it to him and kept an eye on the games, two of the card games weren't using the right cards but one was using a set he recognized, one he owned. Perfect. He thought, knowing they needed some extra chink in his pocket. He drained his mug.

"Gentlemen!" he exclaimed, coming up to the table, stumbling abit on purpose. That ale wasn't enough to get him drunk, but to these fellows he must have looked like a run of the mill lushington. "Can I set in on the game?" he asked with a slight slur to his voice. "I got coin!" he said, reaching into his pocket and dumping some on the table. "What'dya say?"

A look travelled around the table between the players that were already here. After a brief moment one of them beamed a cold reptilian smile, "Please, join us." He motioned to the seat Dean was standing in front of.

"With pleasure," Dean slurred out and dropped into the seat. Every player around him did little to conceal their smiles of delight.

An hour later those smiles were glares, grumbles and dagger stares. Dean still playing the lushington continued to slur his words as he happily sorted the large pot in front of him. He planned to win one more hand and then head up for the night. A lovely barmaid wandered by the table with a pitcher of something, and Dean thought, then again, maybe I won't end up back in the room tonight. His smile doubled in size. He picked up the hand in front of him. It was utter crap. That didn't sour his mood, he didn't care. He thought of that barmaid's beautiful dark locks while he pushed a somewhat large sum into the middle of the table. The grumbling intensified and one of them folded instantly. The other three pushed in.

He smiled, he was quick with his hands, and tonight no one had been the wiser, he was in the process of swapping out the crap card he was dealt with one palmed up his sleeve when a vice-like grip closed around his forearm, and with a shake, several cards fell to the floor. Several extra cards. "Got you, Magsman." Hissed a low voice that stank of liquor.

Dean smiled, "I suppose you wou-" his excuse was cut off as he was cuffed across the mouth with a backhand. Almost simultaneously everyone at the table he was at and the one next to it stood and ushered him out the back door. He let them usher him, he didn't want to make too big of a scene where they were staying. It wasn't good for the cover.

Dean was slammed back against the wooden side of the servant's entrance. "Just give us all the money you got on ya." One growled as he held Dean against the wall, "And we'll let you walk and go find somewhere else to shum."

Dean gave him that patented-Dean-Winchester-smug-smile, "And what was option number two?"

"We'll do you down, proper. You daft boy? There are eight of us here. Can't you count?"
The smug smile never wavered. "Right you are! So go get a few more and we'll call it an even match!" Dean was already in motion, dropping to the ground. He heard the tough's knuckles breaking on the wall above him. He shoved out against the guy's midsection, sending the bellowing guy stumbling backwards.

He was rising when the next punch came. Dean swatted the punch away from him, letting this goon's own momentum throw him off balance, and then folded his arm in and drove an elbow into his attacker's throat. He ignored him as he clawed at his throat and gurgled and focused on the six remaining guys.

Dean Winchester had been trained from an early age to fight. He was raised on the road by his father, who had been an ex-soldier who spent his later days hunting and fighting monsters. It wasn't ideal for a hunter to have to get up close and personal with a kill, but it wasn't uncommon. John Winchester had honed his military skills going hand to hand with wendigos, vampires, demons and half a dozen other things straight out of nightmares; things fourscore stronger than a normal human, faster, more brutal. He trained his sons from a young age to survive, to fight; to be the next generation of hunters: Saving people, hunting things, the family business.

Dean Winchester was a match for any professionally trained soldier, he could go ten for ten with any boxer champ, he could stand toe-to-toe with the most elite soldier. A couple of street toughs was nothing, most people by-and-large don't really know how to fight. But eight people, and even the best can get overwhelmed. Dean gave more than anyone expected, and every one of those eight men felt the sting of his blows, cradling injuries that would be with them for some time. But they had him, four of them held him tight, while the other four took turns working him over.

Sam heard a commotion outside his window, but that wasn't uncommon for this area of London at night, a drunk bellowing wasn't much. But it didn't take him long for the sounds of a fight to draw him from his research to the window of his room. Glancing down he saw eight guys arrayed on a single poor fool. Sam sighed, it wasn't exactly his job, but he wasn't just about to let some poor sod get a beating when he could stop it. He turned to head downstairs when he noticed the victim.

"Bloody hell," Sam swore. He glanced down and a good thirteen span below him was the roof of the service entrance, and a good ten span below that were the cobblestones of the street. He pulled himself through the window and dropped towards the roof of the service entrance. The wooden shingles of the service entrance were slick. It hadn't rained recently, but London wasn't ever really not-wet and he had been halfway expecting that, so he was prepared. He managed to maintain his balance as he slipped quickly towards the edge.
One of his assailants had reeled back to deliver another particularly nasty punch, when Sam slipped off the roof above and came down hard, driving a heel into the man's nose in a spray of blood. He went reeling back and fell to the cobblestones with a roar, and Sam hit the cobblestones harder than he'd have liked, in a half crouch. Pain shot up his left arm as he pushed himself to standing. Startled, the gang had let Dean go, and the two brothers took the advantage of the momentary surprise. The fight went much better two on eight than it had one on eight, but it didn't last long before lantern light burst into the alleyway.

"'ats goin' on here?" Demanded an angry, authoritive voice.

Sam was quick to react. He turned and dipped his hand into his pocket, coming out with his badge. "Detective Inspector Mozart, Scotland Yard. These men beset upon my partner with an intent to rob him."

Dean smiled smugly as his attacker's eyes went wide, they glanced at him and his brother and then at the lights. There had been a lot of tension lately, the constabulary had an ongoing investigation, one of their own had been murdered. Now was not a good time to be caught attacking the law. "That so?" came the voice. There was a level of finality in it, and if possible Dean thought their eyes got even wider. "Boys, how about we show 'em what it means to try to roll one of our own?" Behind that bright lantern light was at least three constables, now out for blood.

Dean stepped quickly between them, wincing a little bit at his ribs and wiping some blood from the corner of his mouth. "Now, now, Constable. These boys got a little caught up in a card game, didn't like that they were losing. I'm sure these fine upstanding gents know-now the error of their ways and would be more than willing to make a small donation to the local constabulary to make amends."

"Oh would they?" There was amusement in the constable's voice now.

The assailants nodded furiously and tripped over their own words in agreement.


Dean laughed to himself all the way up the stairs while he counted their new earnings, despite the fact that when he laughed his… well his everything hurt. "Would have preferred a different method, but can't argue with results, Sammy. This was quite a profit, even with splitting it with those constables."

Sam cradled his arm. "Yeah," he said as he kicked open the door, "You're a mess and I think I may have broken my arm; we are definitely in prime creature fighting form, but at least we got some coin."

Dean sighed, "Calm down, Sammy. Let me take a look at that arm, we'll get it splinted."

Sam shook his head, "Dean you are way more hurt than I am. We'll see to my arm after we make sure you are okay." Sam had that stubborn set to his jaw.

"Looking after you, Sammy. That's the way it is. The sooner you stop arguing about this, the sooner we both get the help we need."